


Real

by Renabe



Category: RWBY
Genre: Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Revival fic, Tears, mention of effects of ch12, post-staff use reunion, short blurb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renabe/pseuds/Renabe
Summary: The staff said it was done. So where is he? Qrow looks around frantically before realisation strikes. Oh.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 111





	Real

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short piece that's been sitting in my drafts for a while. I entertained briefly the idea of expanding on it, but nothing would come to me, so I think I'll share it as is. Fic number 1000 for these two, and it felt appropriate to finally post this little fix-it.

The staff said it was done. So where is he? Qrow looks around frantically before realisation strikes. Oh. _Oh. Oh, gods._

__

__

The relic clatters to the ground, shaking hands losing purchase on the artifact. Qrow whirls around, ignoring questions from the kids, and takes off running to the edge of the platform. He leaps off in a swan dive before shifting to corvid form, wings flapping as fast as they can, desperate to get there.

He pays no mind as his nieces call after him. They are safe now, they will be fine. They might follow him, and that's fine too. He just needs to _get there_. He needs to reach that gods forsaken expanse of white that was soiled with red. So much red. 

Stop. The staff said it worked. He just hopes there are no Grimm in the area.

Qrow's wings flap harder in his haste. He needs to get there in time if there's danger. Please let him get there in time.

\---

There was only darkness before, but it seems lighter now. It's cold, but it is no longer a numbing cold. This cold is biting. Seems a little unfair. Thoughts. There are thoughts swirling around. That's odd. So is the dull pain that seems to linger. Why is there still pain?

Suddenly the muted light is bright, blinding. There's blue, so much blue, with blobs of white. The sky? The light is gone again, the sting of its brilliance forcing the recoil, but faint blotches remain.

Where did this control of light and dark come from? The motion is familiar, but how to willfully access it. The blotches slowly fade, and this time, the shutters open more warily, allowing but a sliver of that light to enter at first, rising until the whole picture returns.

It is indeed the sky. The shutters blink. Once. Twice. And they aren't shutters at all, are they? No, they are eyelids, and he controls them freely. But that would mean…

His eyes are wide, disbelief filling them to the brim. Something twitches at his side. A hand. His hand? He lifts it over his face, blocking out some of the light, and stares at it. It's tanned, covered with a dark brown, fingerless glove that is tattered and soaked with some dark liquid that has dried, frozen really. Gods, it's cold.

Disbelief shifts to wonder. Is this real? Is he alive? Wonder is replaced by horror as memories flood in. His hand drops to his chest, feels the torn fabric, the dried blood, the… lack of an open wound. Skin, solid, smooth. It feels off, different somehow. _Oh,_ he thinks as his fingers brush over a raised edge before finding skin that feels more natural. A scar. It has to be, but that isn't possible.

He tries to look down at it, but his neck is stiff and uncomfortable. He tries to sit up, but the pain is no longer dull. It's sharp and consuming and seizes his breathing. Breathing, something he hadn't realized he'd been doing until he suddenly could not. He lies flat on his back and gasps for air. Precious air that fills his lungs. And the rise of his chest with each breath hurts, it _hurts_ , but it feels _real_ and so it must be good.

He tries again to sit up, carefully this time, putting as much weight onto his arms as he can, hands braced on the snow beneath him as he pushes upward. The pain is still ungodly, but he can breathe this time. He can breathe, _Brothers,_ he can breathe.

Teal eyes close briefly as Clover turns his head, stretching his stiff neck. Turns the other way, dips forward, then back. Everything aches and he's freezing, but the movement helps him focus. He opens his eyes again, finally dropping his head forward to look down at himself.

Hoo, boy. The scar is massive, angry and red. Staring at it, he wonders again how he is alive, how he is in one piece. He feels dizzy and nauseous and has to look away.

Clover's gaze finds the sky again, and something catches his eye. A dark speck, growing larger, or perhaps coming closer? It's black, with wings he realises, but Solitas doesn't have any birds like that. Funny, it seems to be flying directly towards him. It's much closer now, and it is definitely going to crash into him if it doesn't change course.

Before he can even think to move out of the way, the bird is suddenly not a bird anymore. It's Qrow, and he's latched onto him, arms around his neck in a vice grip, and the weight of him against his chest hurts, and breathing is hard again, and this is _Qrow_. How. How is this Qrow.

That line of thought is interrupted by the realisation that Qrow is trembling, and Clover's shoulder is getting wet. Ignoring how much everything _hurts,_ Clover slowly wraps his arms around the man, still reeling and not entirely sure he's real. But he _feels_ real, he's warm and his cape feels rough and grimey under his fingers. His breath is hot and ragged, and his sobs echo in Clover's ears.

Brothers, what has he done to this poor man. Clover can feel his chest tightening with every strangled whimper, and now his face is wet too, tears rushing down his cheeks like water bursting free from a broken dam.

And maybe, just maybe, this is as real as it feels, he thinks as he squeezes tighter.


End file.
